


First Aid

by perhapsdefinitely



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, First Aid, First Kiss, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perhapsdefinitely/pseuds/perhapsdefinitely
Summary: Based on that one prompt: “bro...what if you were gently tending to my wounds…while scolding me for being so reckless...but you stopped mid-sentence when you looked up to find me longingly staring at you...what then bro.”Cas gets hurt on a hunt, and is too stubborn to ask for help when he needs it. Dean is a pro at unlicensed first aid and not talking about his feelings. Will some stitches bring them together?
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 127





	First Aid

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for Cas's injury - his hand is cut during a hunt and he gets stitches for it.

Cas squinted again at his hand. The delicate web of skin between his thumb and pointer to the heel of his palm had been opened in a neat, deep gash after he’d instinctually grabbed a knife by the blade in his face-off with the shifter. The water stung bitterly as it washed into the wound, but Cas knew he had to be sure it was clean. At least the water swirling down the drain was no longer a bright scarlet with specks of mud and gravel; the pale-pink trickle down his hand let Cas know he’d stopped the worst of the bleeding, and he could assess the severity of his injury. 

He couldn’t help the visceral reaction he had to seeing the meat of his hand gently well with blood once more. As an angel, he was steeled against queasiness, but now...not so much. Cas held his breath as bile roiled high in his stomach, and he willed himself to not throw up. He could do this. 

The ping of his phone pulled him back into focus, and Cas welcomed the distraction until he saw the caller ID. Shit. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed, and Dean was probably beginning to grow legitimately concerned. Resisting the urge to throw the phone, Cas answered. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

“Man, the waitress is lookin’ at me like I got stood up. I thought you’d wrapped up, where the hell are you?” Dean’s casual tone did little to mask the worry that laced his question. 

Cas laughed tightly. “Yeah, I took care of it. Sorry for not calling. I’m not feeling that hungry, actually, so I think I’m just gonna stay in the room for the night. Hey, you should see if that waitress is free tonight. Have some fun without me.” He was a terrible liar, and no one could see through him quicker than Dean. Cas braced himself against the sink with his hip and tried not to look at his hand directly. 

The sounds of some shuffling came over the line, and Dean sighed pointedly. “Cas, you’re a shit liar, and I can hear how much pain you’re in. Where are you?” 

“I’m at the motel. But Dean, no, I’m really -” Cas started before the line cut off. He groaned in anticipation of getting chewed out by Dean and figured he might as well wait until the other man arrived to finish tending to his hand. He didn’t know too much about the degrees of wound severity, but he had an awful suspicion that he needed stitches. As he started to feel even more light-headed, Cas sat on the closed toilet lid and propped his right arm up on the dated, mint-green porcelain sink. 

Cas didn’t keep track of the time it took Dean to arrive at their motel room, but he knew Dean must’ve broken at least three traffic laws from how loudly the Impala tore into the gravel parking lot. He heard the door burst open, and Dean kicked it closed behind him. “Hey, you in here? What’s going on? You scared me on the phone,” Dean said into the empty room. 

He took in and exhaled one last breath. “In here,” Cas called out, and was taken aback by how shaken his own voice sounded. Relief and dread in equal measure sank through him as Dean stepped into the narrow doorway, and the other man’s mouth fell open in surprise. 

Cas saw as Dean flinched at the sight of his outstretched hand, dark red still dripping into the sink bowl. “Jesus Christ,” Dean swore in a low, harsh voice. 

“Not Jesus, just me,” Cas replied, somehow even more pitiful in his attempt at levity. “I’m sorry for not calling.”

“Yeah, you fucking should be. What were you - no, you weren’t thinking, that’s the problem. You’re not invincible now, you gotta act like. Shit, I knew I should’ve come with you today.” Dean said tersely, though he didn’t sound angry as Cas had expected; his words just stung with desperate guilt. Cas's heart sunk heavy into his stomach when he realized how much he’d messed up - Dean wasn’t scolding Cas, he was scolding himself for not being there. 

“Dean, no, I - this is not your fault, first of all. You must know that,” Cas said, doing his best to smooth those lines of worry from Dean’s face, to clear the doubt from his eyes. “I made a mistake, it was bound to happen at some point. I mean, you get hurt all the time on hunts.” 

“But that’s me, Cas, not you!” 

Dean’s voice broke on the last word, and he clenched his jaw shut as though wishing he could bite back the already-spoken words. A strained silence widened between Dean and himself when, for the first time since becoming human, Cas was at a loss for words. He and Dean had found themselves in disagreements before - full-blown fights, even - but these stakes were higher, more intimate, and treacherous than any they’d ever played. Cas looked up at Dean, taking in the color high on his cheekbones and the tension in his posture, his green eyes bright with conviction. 

He’s beautiful, Cas thought. Dean is so beautiful like this: burning with frustration born of unspeakable care for others and a deep fear of losing the people he loves. If only he knew. 

After an uneasy pause, Dean finally cleared his throat and looked away, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “If you wanna be a reckless bastard out there, fine. But I’m not gonna let you hurt yourself even more right now. Just let me patch you up, ‘kay?” 

Dean’s voice came out softer and far more patient than what Cas knew he deserved. Because Dean was right - he hadn’t been taking care of himself on that hunt. If the roles were reversed, Cas was sure he’d be giving Dean the exact same lecture. How do you convince someone they are worth saving, they’re worth everything, that they deserve to be safe and whole, without inherently, undeniably declaring your love for them? You can’t, so you don’t. As is ever the Winchester way, these things are expressed through stubborn protectiveness, because it’s easier to stop blood flow and pull neat stitches with unwavering, precise hands than it is to say “I care about you, come back to me, let me take care of you always, not just in the aftermath, the cleanup, the part I hate seeing most.” 

Cas hadn’t quite parsed that one out, so he said nothing. 

“Keep your hand over the sink, gimme a second…” Dean trailed off as he walked over to his duffel bag, rifling through it for a medium-sized pouch with a faded red cross on the side and grabbing a bottle from the counter. “Bingo. You probably wanna throw back a couple shots for this part. You need stitches and I can’t have you squirmin’ around or passing out on me.” 

Cas's eyes went wide, but he was determined to sit through this and make it as easy for Dean as possible. He knew he had a comically bad poker face, though, and Dean set down the sterile packet of needle and thread when he saw the panic in Cas's eyes and posture. 

“Hey, no, don’t freak out,” Dean said, and rested both hands on Cas's shoulders until Cas met his eyes. “You’re not gonna pass out. You’re gonna drink some of that whiskey, and I’ll patch you up real nice. Good as new.” Cas felt himself lean into Dean’s reassuring hands for a moment, the other man’s calm and methodical tone reminding Cas how practiced Dean was in first aid; between caring for Sam and, more often than not, John, Dean had more than enough practice in putting people back together emotionally and physically. 

Dean leaned over the sink bowl to inspect the wound up close, and Cas resisted the urge to flinch when Dean’s breath scraped against his broken skin. “It looks like you didn’t do half-bad getting this rinsed out. I’m gonna put a little disinfectant on it before we start the stitches. Are you with me?” He passed the whiskey to Cas, who didn’t answer but did his best to seem brave as he took a couple pulls from the bottle. Dean began to dab around the gash with an alcohol wipe. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Dean muttered as he disinfected Cas's palm, and Cas realized he hadn’t been holding back his sounds of discomfort as well as he’d hoped. After the wipe was thrown away, Dean sat on the edge of the bathtub, a towel spread across his lap, and gestured for Cas to face him. “For me to do the stitching, I need your hand to be steady,” Dean said as he unwrapped the hooked needle and thread. “Will you be comfortable with your arm on my lap while I work?” He studied Cas with concern, waiting for an answer, before continuing. 

“Yes, that’s fine,” Cas said, and made the mistake of looking at the needle. “Let’s please get this over with,” he groaned. Dean snorted a laugh but bit back his grin after Cas fixed him with a glare.

“Don’t look at me like that, you did this to yourself. Which, by the way, we aren’t done talking about,” Dean said as he adjusted his position, settling with his left knee slotted between both of Cas's, and his right knee pressed against Cas's legs to brace him. Dean pulled Cas's hand onto his knee and held one end of the wound closed as he readied the first stitch. “I’m still mad at you. Don’t forget to breathe.” Anxiety fluttered in Cas's stomach as he tried to process how suddenly close Dean’s body was, and how easily the space between them had melted away. The bathroom was small, sure, and Dean needed to be close to patch him up, but this moment felt more intimate, as though their souls were meeting briefly with each touch of skin to skin.

He tried to cut this trail of thought short - this wasn’t different from what Dean would do for anyone else, right? Cas took in a deep breath, but the exhale caught in his throat when Dean pushed the rounded needle through layers of skin, and new pain seared across his hand and up his arm. The sharp slide and tug made Cas's skin crawl in discomfort, so he closed his eyes and suppressed a shudder. Dean said something, but Cas's ears seemed filled with water, a clouding panic that drowned out his senses. 

“No, hey, keep your eyes open, man. You don’t gotta watch, but I need to be sure you’re conscious.” Dean paused after finishing the first stitch to give Cas a chance to compose himself. Cas didn’t notice Dean had stopped until a light weight settled on his leg, just above the knee. The unmistakable warmth of a comforting hand dragged Cas back into the present, and okay, that was Dean’s hand on his thigh, giving Cas a lightly grounding touch. 

“Can we keep going? Maybe we should just get to a hospital, I passed a sign on the -” Dean’s voice had risen slightly with an edge of fear, and he looked like he was ready to stop working if Cas needed actual medical attention, but Cas could do this. He would do this. 

“Please, Dean, let’s just keep going. I can fucking do this.” Cas grit out and moved to brace his arm on his left knee, but found his hand on top of Dean’s, gripping the other man’s hand too tightly before fully realizing his miscalculation. If he was lucky, maybe he’d just die from blood loss, instead of acknowledging that he was holding Dean’s hand.

“I didn’t know you had that kinda language in you, Cas,” Dean laughed, and Cas was rendered absolutely useless as he felt the hand underneath his not pull away, but instead turn upwards to clasp Cas's hand in return. “But hey, if it helps, swear all you want. Ready?” Dean gave Cas’s hand a little squeeze before pulling back to hold Cas's injured one in preparation for the next stitch. Cas realized his mouth was still hanging just slightly open, and he willed it to shut as his brain caught up. 

“I - yeah, I’m ready,” Cas replied, and Dean thankfully didn’t seem to notice his hesitation or shock. Cas stared at the top of Dean’s head as he leaned over their hands once more to resume stitching. His dark blond hair was cropped shorter than usual, but it still looked so soft. Cas watched as a tuft of Dean’s hair moved gently with a brush of his own exhaled breath. They were achingly close. He allowed himself to observe the man opposite him in a way he rarely indulged, and Cas decided he was too worn out and in too much pain to care whether Dean noticed him staring.

Dean’s shirtsleeves were pushed up above his elbows as they always were when he was intensely focused, like when he was cleaning weapons, working on the Impala, and even researching lore. Cas felt a small rush from being the subject of Dean’s single-minded attention. Even in the less-than-ideal conditions for substantial first aid - a dingy motel with questionable tap water - Cas was overwhelmed by the sense of safety and trust that he felt by Dean’s side. Careful to not look at the needle piercing his skin, Cas counted the callouses and and lines on Dean’s hands, still in disbelief that one of those hands had just clasped his own. 

Those hands have endured so much over the years: digging graves, packing rock salt shotgun shells, and killing monsters. Dean has administered torture and death, salvation and healing, in staggering amounts. But for as much as Dean’s hands were strong and scarred, their impossibly gentle tending to Cas's skin filled him with wonder. Cas had experienced this before, when he laid his hand on Dean’s shoulder and pulled his soul from hell. He remembers how awestruck he’d been by the grace that flowed through and from Dean on that twelfth day in September. Such goodness was a rare thing. To be on the receiving end of this connection, though, was more than he’d been prepared for. 

Now, Cas busied himself creating little constellations amongst the freckles on Dean’s forearms to distract himself from the repeated stab and pull in his hand. If freckles were angel kisses, then Dean truly was a blessed man. And how blessed would Cas be to leave such a mark on Dean? Thinking back moments ago to the feeling of his hand in Dean’s, Cas could only think about how much he wanted to lean in for more. 

He never had been good at stopping his mind from dipping into the familiar pull towards Dean. The impulse to lean forward and bury his face in Dean’s neck, to be against his warm skin, itched across Cas's nerves. The space where Dean’s t-shirt collar hung lower on one side than the other looked like a particularly tempting place to retreat to. Cas longed for Dean’s hands to venture down, to fall to rest on Cas's hips and pull him into his lap, to deepen their closeness and rewrite the years of uncertainty between them. 

“You know,” Dean started, pulling Cas out of his clouded daze, “before we sprung for the fancy pre-packaged shit, we’d use needles and dental floss for stitches. Sam would pocket floss from the store, and I was always the one who’d do the stitching.” He continued to work across Cas's palm, slowly pulling split skin back together amidst the fresh bleeding. “Sam said it was ‘cause I was good at distracting him with stupid stories, but I know he just didn’t have the stomach for it.” 

Cas tried to hum in agreement, but it came out more like the pained whimper he’d been holding in. When Dean looked up at him, eyes questioning, Cas nodded at him to keep going; Cas could tell that Dean understood his words were a welcome distraction. “Anyway,” continued Dean, “one time Sammy grabbed the mint floss by mistake, and my god...” he laughed fondly. “I think Dad came up with some new swear words that night.” 

Though he’d been focused on keeping his breath steady, Cas huffed out a laugh, because he really couldn’t help himself between his nervousness and the pain. “How many more stitches do you have to do?” Cas asked, braving a glimpse at his own hand in Dean’s lap. He was actually surprised to see how far along Dean had gotten, and some of the steeled tension began to dissipate from his shoulders. 

“Mm. Just one more and then we’ll need to wrap it up,” Dean said as he tied off the second-to-last stitch near the outside of Cas's palm. “You’re sitting like a champ for this, honestly. You should see Sam when he gets stitches - such a weenie,” Dean snorted, and finished tying off the last stitch. “There ya go, Cas. You’ve got your first stitches: you’re officially a hunter.” 

Cas's body was wrung out; his hand was throbbing rhymically in waves of pain, but relief that the worst was over was sweet nonetheless. His legs and back muscles were cramped from holding his body so tense for that long. He moved to stand, but Dean raised a hand in a silent request to wait. The expression on Dean’s face made Cas's nerves tick upwards - the levity and confidence Dean maintained while working on his wound had vanished, and Cas could tell the other man was turning something over and over in his mind. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed help?” Dean spit out the question as though he couldn’t keep it from escaping. “You don’t have to do everything alone. You’re stubborn, I get it, but just - let me be here for you, Cas.” And god, even though he knew Dean meant every word, Cas felt a sob of frustration and guilt bubble up. Dean had no idea what he was asking of Cas. 

“Dean, it’s -” Cas cut himself off, and unsteadily got to his feet to walk out into the bedroom area. Cas began to pace, as much as one could pace in a motel room that size, watching the gaudy-patterned carpet move under him as his steps stuttered along with his thoughts. “I can’t ask more of you like that. If I already can’t even protect or heal you anymore, I should at least not be a fucking burden. Apparently I can’t manage that.” 

Cas sat down on the edge of the nearest bed, overcome by the heat in the words that had sprung from his own mouth. He couldn’t stop himself from letting out a bitter laugh as tears stung behind his eyes. Of course this was when his mind chose to dredge up years of words left unsaid, countless tiny weights that haunted Cas for all the times he hadn’t been enough for Dean, and for the times that he’d wanted Dean in ways he knew he could never have. Cas couldn’t look at Dean, but could see his boots on the divide between tile and carpet. 

Dean didn’t respond for a moment, and Cas's heart leapt when he saw those boots in his peripheral begin to move towards him. Cas scrubbed at the tears on his cheeks with his left shirtsleeve before Dean could see them. He could tell Dean was standing in front of him, but before Cas could look up, Dean knelt onto the carpet and suddenly filled his frame of vision. Dean placed his hands on the bed’s edge on either side of Cas's legs and fixed him with a look, those green eyes open and patient. 

“Cas, whoa, hang on. I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you for needing help. I mean, you gave everything for me, Cas, you’ve done more for me than I deserve.” Dean said softly. He paused, looking at Cas’s wounded hand, and his expression grew pained. “But listen, I wasn’t angry with you earlier. I’m just - I’m not good at this. I can’t stand the thought of people I love being hurt because of me, and it wasn’t fair of me to take that out on you. Can you forgive me?” 

Cas knew Dean was being sincere, but he couldn’t accept such a gracious truth, could not accept love so freely given. Dean’s words brought that familiar guilt to the forefront of his mind, and it ached. If only Dean knew how Cas felt, how disgracefully close Cas was to shattering the way of living he and Dean had built around each other: ready and willing to die for each other, yet unable to acknowledge to themselves or each other just how expansive that sentiment was. 

But what if it was that easy? Like tapping a fingernail on the hairline fractures in a windowpane, unable to tell which touch, no matter how tempered, would bring everything crashing down. Or, perhaps, it was as simple as it had been to hold Dean’s hand earlier. Would Dean want more of that with Cas? A comforting handhold is one thing, but closing the space between them to press his lips to Dean’s would be to act on the desires that had brimmed over within Cas for years. With becoming human, it was as though Cas's eyes had cleared, and he at last understood that what he carried for Dean was a profound love - one that transcended heaven, hell, and everything in between. 

It was clear Dean was giving Cas time to speak up if he wanted to, and Cas figured it was now or bury his words forever. He drew in a shaky breath and blinked back tears, reminding himself that Dean deserved the truth at any expense. He could ask for forgiveness later. 

“Of course I forgive you, there’s nothing to forgive. I...” Cas let out the breath he’d been holding. “Dean, I love you. I loved you before I understood what it meant to love someone, and you’re the one who taught me what love means. But I love you in all the ways I know I shouldn’t, the ways I can’t have you.” The words spilled from Cas like a fractured levee had finally broken open. “And it’s okay, really - I know you don’t feel the same, I just. You deserve to know. And if you feel uncomfortable around me now, I understand, we don’t have to travel together if you -” Cas stopped abruptly as he felt Dean’s hands on his sides, a tentative and reverent touch that felt like hope. 

Dean shifted onto one knee and leaned forward. “Cas, you are so stupid. We’re both so stupid,” he breathed, and Cas’s eyes fluttered closed as Dean’s words brushed over his lips. Dean’s hand rose to cradle Cas’s jaw, and his fingers curled in the hair at the nape of Cas’s neck. Cas could almost sob in relief. He leaned into Dean’s palm, craving more as if his bones were crying out to be closer to Dean. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re it for me,” Dean said softly as he rubbed his thumb over Cas’s cheek, wiping away a stray tear. 

“But Dean, how -” Cas started.

“Too long. Too damn long. Cas, I love you,” Dean answered, and it sounded like a promise. Cas nodded and, realizing all the words in every language he knew had abandoned him, bowed his head to meet Dean’s lips with a kiss instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
